


Near Death, Near Salvation

by orphan_account



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt Hannibal Lecter, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-19 06:42:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19969705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Chiyoh grunts ineloquently as the needle passes stubbornly through his right flank—through tough muscle and mangled flesh—then breaks off the remainder of thread with her hunting knife. "This will scar."





	Near Death, Near Salvation

Consciousness returns, and with it, a new scene: the dank room and filthy walls; raven hair woven into a neat braid—posing neatly—hanging heavy like a teasing rope; latex gloves—slimy with fresh blood—holding a needle; the smell of burnt flesh and dizzy breath—exertion and steady hands; an oval face he could never tire to see, nor: that clean, sweet scent like pearly pink blossoms; how it clings to her like a natural fragrance. Her eyes. Her eyes tells a story: that she can embrace pain with welcoming arms and not waver from the rebound; that she grew into the body of a confident woman while he was gone: striking wit and perceptive eyes no longer that distant shadow which followed her in adolescence: now a part of her: attached— _ conjoined _ . 

Chiyoh grunts ineloquently as the needle passes stubbornly through his right flank—through tough muscle and mangled flesh—then breaks off the remainder of thread with her hunting knife. "This will scar."

He strains his neck to gauge her work: neat, even, secure stitches this time. A burning sensation spreads from rib to pelvis and sharpens to a fine point; the anesthetic is wearing off, adrenaline fading, and now his body rocks with the aftershocks of pain. He reaches for her—screams—a white-hot pain searing through his right abdomen, the sudden pinch of something sharp poking into that tender meat. Maybe, Hannibal thinks, this is why I smell burnt. She's melting the skin back together.

Fingers ghost over his skin: unafraid—drawing stripes of blood leisurely down his ribs, as if merely painting grass fields: calm—staring into his eyes as he seizes and shudders. (That Chiyoh has finally built a tolerance for blood is certainly relieving—though he already knew she would never retain the innocence of her childhood for long. Especially since the day she swore her soul to a life of violence and corruption.)

"I practiced first aid after that day in Florence," Chiyoh tells him, "just in case one of you did something idiotic again and the both of you were injured.”

Her confidence is jarring and unfamiliar. "S-should I be grateful for your help, then?"

"No." The rod is removed and left to cool in the makeshift electrical fire. "Just be mindful of what I might do to you while you are in my care." Gloves come off with a slick  _ snap _ —the bed  _ snaps _ —he jerks, startled and delirious with pain. She brushes his thinning hair back gingerly.

No longer confined to staring at his own shoulder—to smelling his own musk—the midnight cabin’s glumness becomes a dim oil lamp; a mound of soiled gauze, crushed water bottles, and bloody clothes lay on white tarps, covering a majority of surface area in the room.

He was not in the ocean long; not long  _ enough _ —

"Your skin was like ice. I did not want to risk hypothermia, " Chiyoh tells him readily as if reading his thoughts. In her gaze holds power and the barest hints of fatigue and saltwater tears. "I know the blankets are thin, but they will have to keep. For now, if you wish, you can sleep. Cope with the blood; it wouldn't be wise to shower with the way you are."

His mouth feels like cotton-like sea foam. Saliva (thick and coppery) trickles from the corner of his mouth like honey: steady, unhurried, slow. Chiyoh moves a bucket under his parted lips. Then, a prick of a needle: everything becomes static and snowy curtains; her pale face stiff like an iron spike; she hums a ballad under her breath (of destruction and secrets), matching her pitch to the tone of the dim room. She is an anchor in his drifting vessel. He reaches for her, for once in his life unsure of his fate. He cannot sweep the fog away, cannot see the hidden intentions behind the waves. This type of vulnerability, liken to an unreachable itch, a deep ache, is alien.

Questions swarm him like flies: What is their destination? Is this punishment or salvation? Are they—

“ _ Safe? _ "

"Yes." Her voice is softer now. That sweet, pearly pink scent returns.

“But, Will Graham….”

**Author's Note:**

> Just a flash fic for you guys. There won't be a second chapter, though T_T.


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